


Goldilocks

by littlelizzyann



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, Title Kink, brig fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelizzyann/pseuds/littlelizzyann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time was...just...right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goldilocks

It's always been good. Make no mistake about it, frakking Bill Adama has been one of the best things in her life, and not just because they was the first social orgasms she'd had in years, or because the good things in her life right now could be measured on the fingers of one hand. Frakking Bill Adama counted for a whole godsdamned _arm._

The first time was hard and fast and unexpected and so, so satisfying that she walked around with a blissed-out expression on her face for the next three days. The second time was tender and deep and how she might have imagined sex with Bill if she were admitting to having devoted a significant portion of her copious free time to constructing that particular fantasy. Which she wasn't.

The third time was amazing, with a sense of emotional connection Laura hadn't often experienced during sex that lent a whole new dimension to the experience.

The fourth time...was still amazing, still wonderful, but by then she'd started to come down, a bit, from the hormonal high she'd been riding for the past two weeks, and had begun to experience an odd sense of disconnect between naked time with Bill and her relationship with the Admiral. And how strange was it that one night alone on Colonial One she imagined Admiral Adama, in his dress grays, laying her down across her desk and demonstrating, with meticulous attention to detail, the exact parameters of military authority?

**

Two days later, Bill was on Colonial One for a standard brief-and-update. They sat there, meeting decorously, aides wandering in and out of the room. They had always been careful with their words, having whole conversations in pregnant pauses and barely-there bits of body language that Laura would never admit to anybody left her tingling (fantasies about military authority notwithstanding). But now...

Now, Admiral Adama was a model of circumspection, papers held defensively in his lap and studiously addressing her pen set in a voice that failed spectacularly to live up to his call sign.

Laura glared at his forehead, willing him to look up.

He looked down, and found something intensely interesting on the front of her desk.

The same desk...she grit her teeth and shoveled that thought to the back of her brain. She was tingling alright, but not in the good way. Frakking Bill might be good, but getting frozen out by the Admiral left her feeling more than a little bereft and rapidly approaching seriously frakked off—all the more so because _she_ ought to be the one who was good at that. Who would have thought that Bill Adama would be better at compartmentalizing? Then the monotone of his voice broke into an aggrieved grumble, and Laura's head shot up.

“...complaints about those bunks we gave to the Picon Princess. Apparently, the civvies can't figure out how to sleep in a rack. I'm about ready to say we should go over there and show them how it's done.”

There was a moment of dead silence, then Laura giggled. Bill's eyes flew to hers— _finally_ —and he flushed and grinned sheepishly and Laura felt a smile spreading over her face. His expression sharpened, half warning, half heat. Laura felt herself blushing, felt the tingles begin as time twisted and looped like a jump in progress—gods, ten seconds of staring into his eyes and she was wet.

“Laura, stop it.”

She blinked. Bill's face was wearing that you-will-obey-me scowl and that was not helping, not at all. She looked down at the desk, where her hand was lying six inches from his—when did their hands get on the desk?—and creeping stealthily closer. She heard him exhale on what might have been a groan, and suddenly his hand slid firmly over hers, fingertips caressing, resting on the back of her wrist then turning her palm up and holding tight for an instant before letting go and moving away while her thoughts were still tumbling over a rush of _soft_ and _hard_ and _so, so sweet_.

She heard the creaks as he leaned back in his chair and looked up to him watching her intently.

“What's going on here, Laura?” He said it softly, but it still jolted her out of the haze.

“Maybe you could tell me,” she said sharply, reaching for equanimity. “Up until five minutes ago, I could have been meeting with Captain Agathon. You're shutting me out.”

“I'm not.”

“Bill.” She just stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “ _You_ may not be, but Admiral Adama—“ And there it was. Little words, plinking like ball bearings onto the desk. She swallowed and looked down.

“That really bothers you, doesn't it?”

She made an indeterminate noise.

“Laura.” There was a long pause, and she bit her lip and stared at the scarred desktop. “Give me your eyes,” he said more firmly, and hers shot up to his. The intent look was back, like he was figuring something out, but underneath that his expression was incendiary.

“When you look at me, that way you've got, I want to frak you.” Laura felt a big, self-conscious smile slide over her face. “Yeah. That way.”

“Bill, I've been looking at you like that for the past three years.”

“I know. But now I also know I can actually do something about it.”

"Mmmm.”

“Something I shouldn't be doing in the President's office,” he rumbled, “with its really lousy excuse for a door.”

“Ah,” Laura murmured, feeling back on secure footing and gracing him with one of _those_ smiles.

His eyes narrowed. “But you already knew that. So maybe later we can talk about why it's really got you so worked up.” And in a moment of exquisite timing, Tory came through the curtain with more reports and Laura was left with the feeling that she was in the precise position of a fish already hooked, but allowed to squirm for a while before it was hauled out of the water.

**

Laura squirmed for another three days, until an unbreakable meeting on Galactica became a working dinner in the Admiral's quarters that she couldn't—didn't want to?—wriggle out of. But he greeted her with a moderated version of his new reserve, and propelled them stolidly through reports, agenda items, and algae until she was lulled into a sense of comfortable if frustrating security.

Which was promptly shattered when he looked at her empty plate, stood up, picked _her_ up, and deposited her in his rack before getting them both totally naked faster than Saul Tigh could down an Ambrosia.

**

He was so hard inside her. Hard cock, hard thrusts, hard shards of sensation thudding through her cunt and belly and thighs. Laura moaned and grunted under him with each fragmented, shuddering moment, but she couldn't get them to connect, to string together into a wire that would send her spiraling upward into blissful oblivion.

Bill hadn't said much of anything between the dinner table and the moment he slid inside her, with a notable lack of foreplay, like he was locking something down. Laura felt unmoored, turned on and frustrated and maybe a little more turned on because of that, but also uncertain and with the silvery sounds of _Admiral Adama_ reverberating in her inner ear. But he was looking at her now— _which one? Oh hell_ —and he saw something in her face that first made him groan and surge into her, then stop, and look again, and slide in more slowly with an almost imperceptible twist of his hips.

That intent expression was on his face again, and he looked like he'd almost got it figured out.

She quivered.

“What do you want, Laura?”

Laura bit her lip. Bill was holding himself still now, and she could feel the tightening beginnings of the spiral, the worked-up, not-enough feeling that made her twitch and murmur.

“I want…” a seconds-long pause as she tried to figure out how to say it “...soft,” and even as she did she knew it wasn't wrong, but not quite right, either.

Bill looked down at her with that frakking smug smile and she realized that he got it, that thing she couldn't put into words.

“Soft?” he queried, sliding into her gently, fully, and it felt good but that wire of tension was dissolving softly away. “Are you sure?”

Laura murmured, eyelids hiding her from his too-knowing look as he stopped, again, all the way inside her, and she twitched, again, and then even harder when he thrust, a short, sharp surge, more pulse than slide, and a grind that prickled over her clit.

“I can do soft,” he whispered against her ear, “or hard.” He demonstrated. “But that isn't what's gonna send you over the edge,” he murmured confidently. “ _Madam President_.”

The words thudded against her eardrum and something more than the puff of air sent a flush breaking over her face and down her chest. Her neck was hot and then on fire when Bill leaned down to suck at the sweet spot he'd found there. He propped himself on one elbow, hand sliding possessively into her hair, cupping her skull. His hips started an infinitesimal surge and twist, and it wasn't enough, and oh gods oh gods it was already too much when, in an impressive display of balance and concentration, he slid a hand down, down and nestled a finger just a millimeter from the pulsing center of her.

“Oh...gods... Admiral—“ Her voice broke off.

“Yeah, it's that,” he muttered, “isn't it?” He nudged his finger against her clit, just a little, barely at all, and Laura shuddered against him like an earthquake. She shut her eyes on the sensation, tense, the spiral twisting tighter. “What would the people say if they knew the President wanted to get in bed with the military?” He slid a hand behind her head, cupping her skull. “Were you thinking about this when I threw you in the brig? Tell me, Laura, what were you thinking?”

Laura's eyes popped open on that, and a measure of shock and the underlying urgency of his tone made them meet his. “What? I didn't—“ She broke off. Underneath Bill's military implacability there was a real question. He was going with this, she realized, without quite knowing where he should go, or how far. And the warm glow in her belly flared in an odd combination of tenderness and arousal.

“I...didn't think about this then.” A quick exchange of looks, a sense of boundaries sketched. “But if I had...” A mischievous little smile danced at the corners of her mouth. Faded, rapidly, when his hand tightened in her hair, and his finger—that other finger, gods, how had she forgotten about that other finger?—slid down and began stoking the skin around her opening. He brushed against his own cock and she felt him shudder. Her own fingers itched to join in, and he must have read it in her face.

“You keep your hands right there,” he said. _Right there_ was on his shoulders, nails digging half-moons into the skin. “I don't want to catch you interfering with military maneuvers.”

A slightly hysterical, very aroused giggle bubbled out of Laura's mouth. Bill looked almost uncertain for a moment, then his lips twitched. He bent to her ear, and growled, “Tell me what you were thinking.” Then he bit down on the lobe, and began moving inside her, short strokes as carefully measured as a ceremonial salute.

_Thinking?_ What was she supposed to—oh, right. _Gods. Right_ there. Laura swallowed hard. “I was thinking,” she quavered, “that you would send the guards out of the room...”

“Yeah?” he encouraged. He slid into her just a little deeper.

“And you would open the cell...” His mouth moved down to her jaw, lips sucking, pressing her face to the side. “And press me up against the bars...”

“Yeah.” No question, this time.

“And slide your hand up my skirt.”

His hand moved to stroke down, then up her inner thigh, ending where he had begun, fingers poised just over her, held in reserve.

“And you'd tell me...tell me...” Laura's voice broke as his fingers began circling delicately over her clit.

“I'd tell you that this is what happens when you interfere in a military decision.” And then his strokes deepened, and he was hitting that absolutely amazing spot inside her. Twice. Four times. A half dozen and Laura's nerves were about to tear themselves out of her body and—he stopped.

Laura surged up to him, moaned.

“Shh,” he rumbled gruffly. His hands, in contrast, were gentle but unrelenting, one pressed to her shoulder, keeping her still, the other between her legs, still just brushing over the top of her clit.

He lowered his head until it was right above hers, until his improbable blue eyes filled her field of vision. He pressed little baby kisses to her mouth, her eyebrows, her temple. Laura was shuddering under him in fierce reaction to the tiny motions above and below.

“Some things you need to know,” Bill growled, pulling back just enough so she could focus. “I can frak you six ways from Sunday. I can tease you until you come out of your skin. And I love you.”

Laura stilled.

“I love you,” he repeated, hips thrusting in punctuation. “I love you. I love you,” he muttered, growled, a litany of desire, possession, vulnerability that sang across Laura's skin until she shook under him, around him, shook apart and fragmented under his eyes.

He stiffened and thrust into her hard, a groaned “I love you” that was halfway to a shout, then collapsed mostly on the bed, but with the important parts still on her, in her, lips against her ear. “I love you,” he whispered.

Laura panted, feeling like mercury, shattered but slowly recollecting through some sort of weird reverse entropy. She turned her head, pressed her mouth to his jaw.

“About time.”

End.

**Author's Note:**

> This smutlet was originally written for for the lj comm bsg-kink in November of 2009, and five years later I still haven't come up with a better title. Possibly because I like porning up fairy tales (the sex was not too hard, not too soft...)


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